


Sleeping Partners

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Takes place several months after Mulder's return from Tunguska.





	Sleeping Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Sleeping Partners by Europa

Sleeping Partners  
Author: Europa  
7/6/99  
Category: slash (Mulder/Krycek)  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen and Fox. No infringement intended.  
Summary: Takes place several months after Mulder's return from Tunguska. Krycek angst, unexpected intimacy and UST.  
Feedback can be sent to: 

* * *

====================  
Sleeping Partners  
by Europa  
====================

Rough hands set me on my feet and I sway unsteadily, trying to regain my equilibrium.   
My wrists are bound securely behind me, putting an unnatural strain on my shoulders and chest, making breathing difficult, a problem exacerbated by the gag covering my mouth.  
There's the sound of metal banging on wood.   
Retreating footsteps.   
Silence.  
Struggling to stay upright without the orientation of vision, I stumble against a hard vertical surface.  
The sound of a door opening.   
I am grabbed by the shirt and pulled forward.   
The sound of a door closing. 

The cover is pulled from my eyes but I can see little, blinded as I am by light and tears.

"Jesus, Krycek. What happened?"

I recognise the voice and sink to my knees. All dignity gone, the panic that has been threatening to engulf me now does so and I can't stop the tears. I feel nauseous and dizzy. 

When he crouches down in front of me and pulls my head up, I flinch, bracing myself for the blow that will inevitably come, the blow that always comes. But he merely pulls the gag away from my mouth. Then he turns me round, an action that makes my head swim and almost topples me over, and starts fiddling with the rope. A sharp intake of breath. Then "Damn it. Wait here."

I sit on my heels, head down, crying quietly.

After a few seconds he returns. "Hold still." He takes my hands and starts cutting the rope with scissors. 

Way before he's finished I pull away. He must have a sixth sense. Either that or I have that I'm about to vomit over your hall floor look on my face. Anyway, he grabs me and hauls me into the bathroom. With my hands still tied I am unbalanced and he has to do most of the work to get me in there. We don't make it in time and my first retch goes all over his bathroom floor. By the second he has me right over the toilet bowl. He supports me with an arm across my chest as I throw up my guts helplessly. He gets a chair and places it behind me then pushes me gently down onto it. His arm is still across my chest and I lean heavily against it. I retch for a full five minutes after my stomach is empty. I retch until my muscles are begging for mercy and my throat, already sore from yelling, is raw. When finally the spasms stop he leans over, pulls off a piece of tissue and wipes my mouth. Then still supporting me, he flushes the toilet. I am exhausted and trembling and lean my head against his bare stomach. I feel his free hand between my shoulder blades, gently rubbing the pulled tendons. I am almost lulled to sleep until he moves, pushing me away to rest against the chair whilst he finishes untying my hands. 

"How are you doing?" he asks softly.

"I'm cold." My voice sounds weak and pathetic. 

He pulls a large towel off the rail and wraps it round my shoulders, pulling it close. "You sit there as long as you need." He disappears and returns a moment later with disinfectant to deal with the mess on the floor. 

I watch him through the veil of tears that blurs my vision, a lithe, graceful figure wearing only boxer shorts, his hair tousled from sleep. The smell of industrial strength disinfectant makes my nose itch. 

When he's finished, he straightens and comes over and hunkers down beside me. "Do you want to tell me?" His voice is gentle, coaxing.

I shake my head.

He rises and rubs his hand reassuringly over my shoulder which just makes the tears intensify. "Do you want to take a bath?"

I nod. I am filthy. My jeans are urine-soaked and I am sticky with cum. It's a wonder he can stand to be near me.

He turns on the bath taps, takes some oil from the cabinet and pours it on the water. I never saw him as a bath oil sort of guy. The perfume fills the room and masks the disinfectant a little. He puts his hand into the water and swishes it round, mixing the oil. As he does so I can see him look at me out of his peripheral vision. I must look a real dog's breakfast. I look away in embarrassment. When the bath's ready he fetches me some underclothes and a T-shirt. He looks thoughtful for a moment as if he's about to say something then changes his mind and goes out leaving the door just ajar. 

I sit for a long while before I can gather the energy to move. Still shaking, I remove my shirt and begin the tortuous struggle to undo the buckles of the leather harness that holds the prosthesis on. No matter how often I do this I can't seem to get used to it. It revolts me. I have learned to take it off without having to set eyes on it. For the same reason I leave on the thick layer of bandage that covers what remains of my arm. I let my clothes drop to the floor. As I turn, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The shock still has the power to take my breath away. It's been five months now but every time I see my asymmetrical reflection, it's like the first time all over again. Like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, my brain seeks to compensate and replace the missing limb. Usually it makes me want to kill someone but tonight it just makes me want to weep. 

I step shakily into the tub and lower myself into the water. It is deep and warm and makes my injuries sting like hell. I lay there shivering in the warm water until it goes cold. 

\- 0 -

Mulder is placing a steaming mug on the coffee table when I emerge from the bathroom wearing his robe. He's put on a T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. He stands tall and rangy in the muted light of the desk lamp. 

"Come and sit down. How are you feeling?"

I say nothing. But I sit and he hands me a mug of hot milk. I take it but I am still shaking and he steadies my hand.

"It's probably shock." he says. "Give it some time and you'll be okay." He sits down on the coffee table opposite me, his knees almost touching mine.

I nod and take a sip. He is looking at the empty sleeve of my robe and I shiver involuntarily. "Sorry about your bathroom floor."

"S'okay." He continues to stare. "What happened to your arm?"

I take another sip. It tastes good. He's put some sort of alcohol in it, it's heat soothing my ravaged throat. 

When I don't answer, he tries another tack. "Alex, do you know who did this to you tonight?" Mulder hasn't called me by my first name since we were partners. Its sound seems odd to me, like he's talking to somebody else. 

Still I don't reply. 

"Okay. We'll talk in the morning."

I shrug. "What time is it?"

"Three."

"How long have I been here?"

"About an hour." He gets up. "Come on. It's late and you need to get some rest. You take the bed and I'll take the couch."

Instinct screams that I should leave. But I'm feeling sorry for myself so I follow Mulder into the bedroom. He takes the mug I'm still clutching and places it on the bedside table and then pulls the bedcovers back. This is the bed he got out of to answer the door. It's a little crumpled but it looks like heaven to me. In a haze of exhaustion I allow him to help me pull off the bathrobe which he lays on a chair. I climb onto the bed and slip down between the sheets. He pulls the duvet up over me, turns out the light and leaves the room. 

Exhausted as I am, I can't sleep. The events of the evening play back in my head over and over in Technicolor like some cheap porno movie. The discomfort I feel makes denial pointless. I bury my head in the pillow, drawing my knees up to my chest and disturbing a pleasant scent of Mulder. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes tight. 

\- 0 -

//The thug wearing the laughing Clinton mask swings the iron bar menacingly. I am laying on my stomach with my hands tied behind my back. 

"Pull him up."

I am yanked roughly to my knees from behind by someone wearing a Reagan mask. Very original. 

Clinton unzips his pants in front of me. The light glints off a silver skull and crossbones ring he wears on his wedding finger. "What's the matter, Krycek? This make you hard?"

I spit in his direction and he cracks me on the upper right arm with the bar. I cry out in pain.

"You bite me and I'll break your back."

A third person is hovering in the background watching. Clinton undoes the button and his jeans fall open. He fishes inside and brings out his cock. A hand grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back. Clinton takes a step towards me. I can't take my eyes of his cock. It is erect and weeping. The smell of his arousal is pungent and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. I edge backwards but Reagan holds me in place. 

"That's not nice, is it? You wanna be careful. You might hurt my feelings."

I feel cold steel against the back of my neck and shiver. No contest. When I was a kid I used to dream of making honourable choices, taking the principled stand. I left all that bullshit behind a long time ago. I feel a shove in the back and almost fall forward. 

"Open up, baby. Hope you're feeling sexy." Clinton steps forward till his cock is almost touching my nose. 

I fight the impulse to gag, knowing that to do so will bring the iron bar down on me again. The thought of damage to my remaining arm is more than I can bear. I open my mouth a little and the cock gets unceremoniously shoved in. I close my eyes, trying to divorce myself from what's happening, the taste of sour urine on my reluctant tongue.

"Ooh. That feels nice, boy. You've done this before." The knife in my neck presses a little harder. 

Tears are leaking out of the corners of my eyes with the pressure to open my jaw ever wider as he begins to thrust into my mouth. He grabs my hair to pull me into his rhythm and pull himself in deeper. The whining starts deep in my chest and comes out a little above a whisper. It's the only protest I can make. I can't stop myself but he seems to like it. He pushes deeper into my throat and he's grunting now with every thrust. What started as a whine grows into a panicked mewling as he rushes headlong toward climax and I resign myself with horror to the fact that very soon he's going to come down my throat. I try desperately to pull back but my head is kept firmly in place by Reagan's hand. Reagan's other hand is holding the knife against my throat. A bright flash of light momentarily blinds me and I try to cry out though my mouth is full- //

"Alex - wake up. You're okay. Wake up."

I don't know where I am for a moment and then Mulder's gently shaking me. 

"Bad dream, huh?"

I don't answer. The horror fresh and real in my mind is hard to dismiss so easily. In the darkness I feel him more than see him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress slope down slightly. 

"Well, if you're okay..." The mattress springs up as he stands. "night."

"'night, Mulder."

I lie awake for a long while after he's gone, unable to relax sufficiently to allow sleep to take me. This room is very dark. Its unfamiliarity makes me uneasy. Unknown black shapes loom out of the obscurity. At length I get out of bed, pull on the robe and feel my way to the bedroom door. I open it carefully and stand on the threshold allowing my eyes to adjust to the different degree of darkness. I can make out Mulder's recumbent form sprawled on the couch. He looks peaceful, laying on his side with the duvet half on him, half on the floor, his tousled hair hanging over his eyes. I walk slowly into the room and stand over him, willing him to wake. He sighs and rubs his nose but continues to sleep. There is just room at the end of the couch by his feet so I sit down and pull my legs up under me. I pull part of the duvet from the floor and place it over me. Then I lean my head against the back of the couch and close my aching eyes, listening to his breathing. 

\- 0 -

When I open my eyes sunlight has breached the blinds and is painting horizontal stripes on the far wall. 

Mulder is looking at me. He smiles. "How long have you been there?"

"Not long."

"Liar." He grins. "Want some coffee?"

"Yeah."

He gets up and stretches, flinging his arms to the ceiling and exposing the firm flesh of his stomach and lower back. Then he shuffles into the kitchen and I hear him banging around. By the time he's back I've stolen his place at the head of the couch.

"Do make yourself at home." He says mock sarcastically, placing a mug within my reach on the coffee table. He goes into the bathroom leaving the door open and I hear the shower running. He seems to be remarkably relaxed with my being here which makes me nervous. I lean my head back against a cushion and close my eyes. 

He emerges a few minutes later with only a white towel round his waist, rubbing his wet hair with another. He sits on the coffee table opposite me. "Did you sleep?"

"A little."

"Why don't you go back to bed?" He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his wet hair, trying to comb it into shape. "I hope you're not thinking of running off." 

I stare at him, searching for the menace in his voice, wondering if he means to arrest me and, if so, what I should do about it. 

He rises. "I'm going out to get us some groceries. Will you be okay?"

I look at him stupidly. I guess this means no arrest, not yet anyway.

"Okay. Do you have any requests then?"

I shake my head. The last thing I can think about is food. "Leave me your weapon."

He hesitates for a second and then actually releases the gun from its holster and lays it on the table. When he's gone I stare at it in disbelief. I don't understand this at all. Perhaps he's gone to alert the FBI so they can storm the place and shoot me dead, all the while claiming they were using reasonable force against an armed assassin. 

I pad gingerly into the bathroom. Might as well use the facilities before they arrive. Every joint creaks, every muscle aches and I find myself shuffling like an old man. The hated prosthesis lies where I left it. Squatting stiffly on the floor and leaning against the side of the bath for balance, I take a look at the damage in a small hand-held mirror that I find on the shelf. The time has come to admit to myself what I have been trying to deny unsuccessfully all night. Those bastards left me a momento of our meeting, a foreign object, left inside me and very probably with sharp edges. I have to get it out. I feel cautiously, gritting my teeth against the pain. I can touch it with the tip of my finger but there's no way I can get a grip on it. My fingers come away wet with blood. I run through the options. Can I use my internal muscles to shift it? I try. No. 

Downcast, I take a pee, wash my hand and head back to the sofa. 

I turn on the TV but can't concentrate on it so I turn the sound down and listen to the sounds of Saturday in Alexandria. A woman next door is screaming at her husband. An endless stream of traffic passes the apartment. There are children shouting nearby. There are cartoons on the television and I watch the silent characters run about the screen in never ending frenetic activity. I notice how the background repeats itself in the driving scenes. Fred and Barny drive past the same brontosaurus burger bar fifteen times. 

The incongruity of this situation is not lost on me. Here I am wearing Fox Mulder's underwear and bathrobe laying on his sofa, watching his TV whilst he goes out shopping for us. My mind goes back to when we were partners for that short time. We almost become friends. I think we actually liked each other by the end. A pang of regret mixes with the anxiety gnawing away at my stomach like a rabid dog. 

I hear the key in the lock and stiffen. I leap up, grab the gun and aim it at the door. 

"Don't shoot, it's me." He goes past the doorway carrying two brown paper bags which he dumps in the kitchen. 

No armed hit squad. 

I follow him and stand in the doorway watching him unpack. He turns and throws a small plastic bag at me which I catch on reflex. Inside is a toothbrush and disposable razor.

"You shouldn't have."

"And I suppose you'd like some clothes, too." He says. "I put yours in the laundry." He pauses. "Er... we need to talk about that sometime."

I blush at the memory of those jeans.

He goes into the bedroom and I hear him opening and shutting drawers. When he comes back he's carrying a sweatshirt and sweatpants. He hands them to me. "These should fit you okay."

I take the hint and head for the bathroom.

When I return Mulder has made us tea and toast. I feel almost sorry for his efforts at hospitality, but I can't touch it.

"You need to eat something, Alex. Just a little?" He coaxes.

"I'm not hungry." In fact I feel sick to my stomach. I sit with my feet tucked up under me on the couch, eyes fixed at the television, seeing nothing. 

Mulder sits at the table munching thoughtfully. "You never did tell me how you lost your arm."

\- 0 -

All afternoon I lie on the sofa not watching television, fighting the rising wave of panic that's eating away inside me like the unknown article lacerating my rectal tissue. I must be shivering because Mulder brings me the duvet from the bed and flings it over me. Later he fetches a glass water and two aspirin. I look at him dumbly.

"Go on. Take them."

Nothing is going to make me feel any better but I take the glass and tablets and he waits patiently whilst I swallow them.

I drift in and out of sleep, lulled by the noise of Mulder moving around. He messes about with his PC and makes regular coffees which I fail to drink. It starts to get dark outside and he pulls the blinds and turns on a lamp or two. When he puts a video in the VCR and sits down at my feet with the remote control. I curl up and feign sleep, burying my face in the pillow I've brought from the bedroom. It serves to hide the tears that come so easily. 

Neither of us move when the phone rings. I will him to ignore it. After what seems an eternity the machine clicks on and I hear Walter Skinner's voice asking Mulder to call him back. Ten minutes later it rings again. Scully this time. It's all I can do not to hiss and make the sign of the cross. Next it's the turn of his cell-phone. He lets it go onto message. 

This apartment is too small. There's nowhere to pace. I get up and go to the bathroom instead. When I come back there's a mug of tea on the table. I ignore it and sit down on the couch again, resting my chin on the pillow so I can watch the TV screen. 

He presses PAUSE and looks at me. "You're very quiet."

I ignore him and continue to look at the shuddering screen.

"You're wearing out my cushion."

I look down at the cushion in my lap which I've been involuntarily twisting and untwisting. I push it away and look back at the TV. "Sorry."

"Alex, will you look at me please?"

I look in his general direction but avoid his eyes. 

He turns sideways in the seat to face me. "I know you've had a bad time-"

"Is that why you haven't tried to hit me yet?"

He pauses and offers me my mug which I wave away. "- and I know that you're upset. You've not told me what happened to you. I assume you were jumped?"

"Well done, good detective work Agent Mulder." I sneer.

"I'm trying to help."

"Why?" This time I do look at him. He looks harmless enough sitting there, sipping his tea and twisting the mug round in his hands. 

"This isn't easy, you know."

"Then why do it? Why don't you just haul me in to Skinner? Something to improve your record with the Bureau." My voice is shaking.

His voice is calm. "Alex, I know you're bleeding."

Shit. The sheets. Unnerved, I leap up and cross the room, flushing with embarrassment. I go into the bathroom and lock the door. 

A moment later he's tapping on it. "Alex, let me in."

I am squatting on the cold tiles trying to think. "Leave me alone." God, I sound like a fourteen year old child hiding in his room.

"Alex, I have no intention of standing in line outside my own bathroom. Open this door." His voice is hoarse with frustration.

When I don't answer his tone becomes more conciliatory. "You need to talk to someone about this. It'll make you feel better."

Sure. It'll make me feel much better to tell him how I swallowed half a gallon of someone else's cum. He'll be delighted to know that's what he cleaned off his bathroom floor. I sit hanging my head.

"Alex, forgive me, but I have to ask this." 

A long pause and I lift my head and look toward the closed door. 

His voice is gentle, concerned. "Were you raped?"

I want to curl up and die but instead I lean forward and unlock the door. It opens a quarter and his head appears in the gap. The tears come easily and I rock myself gently, my face in my hand.

He comes the rest of the way in and kneels on the floor beside me. We sit like that for a long while, close but not touching. 

For my part, I am reluctant to move. And I know it's now or never. "Mulder?"

He lifts his head and turns it slightly toward me. "Yeah?"

I take a deep breath. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

His choice of word surprises me but I push on. "They left something inside me." There. I've said it. 

He is silent for a moment, processing the information. Then he looks at me intently and I can't meet his eyes. "Are you sure?"

I nod. 

"Are you in pain?"

"No, not exactly."

"But that's why you're bleeding?"

"Partly." I nod again.

I feel him take a deep breath and release it. He shifts position a little, eases the cramp in his calf. "Okay. That's okay." He's trying not to alarm me by showing the shock I know he must feel. "Have you tried to remove it?"

"I can reach it but I can't get hold of it." The heat of embarrassment is washing over me and I can't quite believe we're having this conversation.

He nods slowly. "Right. Well, we have several options. One. We find someone with slightly longer fingers." He holds up his hand with its long tapering digits. "Two, we get you to a doctor." 

My turn. "Three we do nothing but wait and hope it pops out on it's own."

He is tracing patterns on the floor tiles with his index finger. "No, I don't think so. If you're bleeding then it's doing you damage and we need to remove it quickly. Besides, that's not very likely since you won't eat anything." He looks up. "I think maybe we should get Scully to take-"

"- no. I'm okay." I say quickly.

"Come on." He starts to rise to his feet and pulls me up with him. "Your tea's getting cold."

\- 0 -

"Right, I think maybe if you make like a dog on all fours." He's trying hard to act matter of fact as if this is no big deal but I'm tense as hell. He lays a towel on the floor and I kneel down. "You'll have to pull your pants down."

I turn my back to him and ease the sweatpants down past my butt. 

He's digging around in the wall cabinet. He turns. "And the shorts."

Reluctantly I pull the shorts down too.

He comes and squats down at my rear and I shiver nervously. "Okay, lean forward." He pulls on some latex gloves like he uses for work.

I do as he says, burying my burning face in my hand on the towel and screwing my eyes tight shut.

"Okay, relax. This may be a little cold." As he says it he touches my butt and on reflex I scoot forward out of his reach, taking the towel with me. He shuffles forward on his knees to position himself behind me again. I take a deep breath and prepare myself but I am dying inside. He places his left hand on my lower back to steady himself and then I feel the cool touch of lubricant on my ass. 

This is too much. I bolt for the corner and scoot round to face him. "I'm sorry. I can't do this."

"Yes you can."

"I can't."

He sits there regarding me, his gloved hands hanging in mid air. He raises his eyebrows. "You know what the alternative is."

I have a vision of Scully in those same rubber gloves and swallow hard. "Maybe we can just leave it where it is."

Mulder lowers his hands. "Come on, Alex." He puts on that puppy dog expression that works so well on Scully. "This will take a few minutes of discomfort and then it'll be over. Promise." 

"That's okay for you to say. It's not you that has to bend over."

"I'm sure you'd do the same for me."

"I wouldn't count on it."

He grins and I find myself grinning back, struck by the ludicrous nature of our situation. "First one to guess what it is wins a prize." He says.

"What's the prize?"

"Night out with Scully?"

"Forget it."

"Alex, get your sorry ass over here."

I groan at the feeble pun but I scoot over and turn my back on him. "You look as though you're well practised with that lube, Mulder." I fling casually over my shoulder.

"Now you're just trying to get your own back." 

I feel the lubricant being rubbed round the ring of muscle in my butt.

"Just try to relax. The more tense you are the more difficult this is going to be, you know." He applies more lubricant. "Have you ever seen those farm veterinary programmes on National Geographic?"

"Don't say it Mulder. Don't even think it."

"Okay. Let's just hope Scully doesn't ask me what I did at the weekend. You know I'm a lousy liar."

I try to relax, I really do. But as if this whole situation weren't bad enough as soon as he slips a finger inside me I start to harden. Oh shit. This I can't deal with. I put my head down and whimper.

"It'll be over soon. Don't worry." He says, slipping in a second finger. "Nearly there. Stay relaxed."

The feel of him inside me makes me shiver and the reflex to clamp my muscles around him is strong. "Can you feel it?" I manage to gasp, trying to take my mind off what his fingers are doing to me.

"Yeah. Hold still, Alex. And relax."

I lean forward a little further, my erection rubbing against the towel. I wonder if he can see it. 

"Okay. I think I have it. I'm just going to ease it out, okay?"

I can feel the movement inside me and a wave of nausea washes over me. "Wait. I need a moment."

He pauses, his fingers still inside me. "You okay?"

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, waiting for the feeling to subside. "Yeah. Okay now."

He places his left hand on my upper thigh for leverage and pulls gently. I feel the thing slide out and the sharp edge scrapes my inside as it exits. Oh Jesus. I cry out and double up. That was close.

"Sorry about that. You okay?"

"Yeah." I say into the towel. When I've recovered I straighten up, pulling up my shorts and turn to look. "What is it?"

I see Mulder's face aghast for a split second before he composes himself. "It's one of those plastic containers you take 35mm film to the drugstore in. Empty."

I look down at the small black container in his hand and notice for the first time that as well as being smeared with blood, Mulder's right glove is smeared with unmistakable white creamy fluid. 

We meet each other's eyes for a moment, then he looks away. "I'll let you get cleaned up." He rises, ripping the gloves off with a snap, and slips out of the room.

\- 0 -

He's in the kitchen making salad of all things. Fox Mulder making salad. That's a sight not often seen. 

I stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Thanks."

He turns and gives me half smile.

"What did you do with it?" I ask.

"I threw it away."

I come up behind him and rest my chin on his shoulder. "Why do you think they did that to me?"

He shrugs. "Because they're fucking sick. Forget, it Alex. Just forget it."

I watch him chopping lettuce. He's slow and clumsy and I worry that the knife is going way too close to those beautiful fingers.

"You need to get tested." It's said without emotion, a statement of fact, but it hits me like a slap in the face. I'm still reeling from the first blow when the second comes in. " I don't suppose you have medical insurance. I'll get you the address of somewhere where they won't ask for personal details."

"Great. I just wait in line with all the other junkies and low-lifes, huh?"

"That's about it. Either that or walk into the nearest ER and fill in all those intrusive forms."

\- 0 -

Have you ever woken with such a compelling presentiment of loss that for a moment or two you believe that someone close to you has actually died? When I was a child I would wake in the middle of the night convinced that my parents were dead. A dream, of course, but so real as to engender the need to go check they were still there in the next room. They always were, though the act of my opening their bedroom door to reassure myself would often wake my father who would fly into such a paroxysm of rage that I would flee back to my bed in shame. I would hear him yelling at my mother through the wall, telling her that there was something wrong with me, that it was abnormal not to sleep through the night at my age, that there was obviously something wrong with the way she had brought me up. My mother would cry and I would lie in my bed curled into a ball with my fist in my mouth, my heart beating like a steam hammer, silently crying for life's injustice. 

I lie now feeling just such a sense of bereavement. Though I have no memory of it, I feel sure I have dreamed of death. The darkness boils before my eyes, a thick black soup, alive with creatures of the night, forbidding and disquieting. I am powerless to drag myself out of this mire of self-pity that I've slid into and in which I'm in danger of drowning. I don't know why I am so hysterical. It's not like I believed they were practising safe sex. Perhaps I have dreamed of my own death. The concept makes me whimper in distress. I sit up in bed, listening. I can hear nothing but the occasional car passing outside. I can see the flicker of light through the crack in the door which tells me that Mulder has left the TV on with the sound turned down. I tiptoe to the door and open it carefully. The analogy with my sleeping parents is not lost on me and I act for the same motives as all those years ago. The light is playing across Mulder's sleeping face. How can he sleep like that? I turn off the TV and curl up at his feet. He turns onto his side and I slip into the warm space vacated, pulling a cushion under my head. His feet are resting on my stomach and my nose is almost touching the back of his knees. 

I awake when Mulder slips off the couch. I crawl up to the warm space he leaves and he pulls the duvet up over me. I hear him in the bathroom and then he's standing over me.

"I'm going running. Don't use all the hot water."

I open one eye, grunt acknowledgement, and then close it again. The door clicks shut and he is gone. I hug the duvet closer, though the room is warm. I trace the route he will take in my mind, down the stairs, a few exercises in the lobby, then down the steps and off down the road, his breath blowing out in front of him like smoke. I have watched him on countless occasions in the past, unbeknownst to him. He slows as he reaches the junction but the WALK sign is showing and he gets on the gas again, passing another jogger coming the other way. Mulder has this loping stride that means he has stamina rather than speed. A five thousand metres man. He reaches the park and bounds through the gates, waving to a woman walking her two Pekinese dogs, horrible, snuffly, snotty little creatures that she builds her life around. 

Driven out of my cosy nest by a full bladder, I swing my legs over the side of the couch and head for the bathroom. 

Mulder returns whilst I'm in the shower. "It's a glorious day. Cold but bright." He's sitting on the edge of the bath stripping off his clothes. 

"Thanks for the weather forecast." I say, emerging from the steam with a towel around my waist. I take care to angle my left side away from him. 

I see him looking at the livid black and purple weal across my ribcage. "Does that hurt?"

I look down at the bruise and shrug. "Only when I laugh, cry, sneeze, breathe-"

He holds up his hands. "Okay, okay." He pulls off his sweatpants and drops them on the floor. He's wearing these cycle shorts beneath that show every curve. He pulls them down, his penis springing free as he does so, and steps out of them. Then he pulls the T-shirt over his head. He is unconscious of his nakedness and steps into the shower I have left running. 

I badly want to stay and watch him shower but I dress quickly and give him his privacy.

There is a brown hard-back envelope on the coffee table. I pick it up, weigh it in my hand. It is not addressed. "What's this?" I call through the bathroom door.

"What's what?" He replies above the flow of water.

I slip my thumb under the seal and tear the flap slowly along the top. What I see inside makes my heart stop. Photographs. Colour photographs. Of me. Of me and Clinton, his cock stuck up my ass. Lots of colour photographs. I find my hand is shaking and drop the prints on the floor. When Mulder enters the room I am bending to pick them up one at a time. 

"What you got?"

I try to cover them but one hand is not enough.

He squats down beside me. "Give them to me. I'll destroy them." 

He tries to take them but I hang on. "Who sent them?"

He shrugs. "The envelope was in the mailbox downstairs when I came back."

I feel a wave of grief washing over me.

"Alex, don't look at them. Whoever took these is sick."

"I suppose this explains that fucking film case."

I allow him to take them and head sulkily for his bedroom. I expect him to follow me and when he doesn't I can't but feel a sense of disappointment. I throw myself onto his unmade bed. The first picture is burned into my retina like the after image of a flash gun. The anger wells within me until I am choking on it. 

There was a debate among the chattering classes at one time as to whether rape was physically possible. Whether it was actually possible to enter a woman if she wasn't willing. Seems ridiculous now and I suppose that reflects how much society has moved on. I had wondered the same thing about male rape. I realise the naivete of that now. I, more than anyone, should know that it's possible to make anyone do anything if you threaten enough violence. And the more the victims fight, the more pain they feel and the more damage is done. Most people are not prepared to die or be seriously injured for a principle. 

A welcome tap on the door interrupts my thoughts. Mulder, now dressed in jeans and a t-shirt elbows his way in, a tumbler of sloshing golden liquid in each hand. He hands me one and knees his way onto the bed at my feet. I draw my knees up to my chest to give him more room. A tear escapes from my left eye and I cuff it away quickly. I won't cry. I won't. I take a sip of the drink. It catches in my throat and I gasp. 

Mulder sits watching me.

"Popular opinion has it that you don't drink." I say when I feel able to speak.

He smiles. "Ah. Popular opinion isn't always right. This is my emergency stash."

"Is this an emergency, then?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

I feel a pleasant heat where the whiskey passes and it feels good. My heart rate is slowing. I balance the glass between my knees.

"You know, Alex," he begins, leaning his head against the wall, the glass clutched to his chest, and his eyes levelled at the shelf opposite, "I think maybe you should talk to someone. A counsellor. There are people that specialise in this kind of thing."

I stare at him in disbelief. "Jesus, sometimes you really are something, you know that?"

"I only meant that we should try. I bet Scully could find us someone-"

I almost choke. "Scully! No, Mulder. I couldn't bear it."

"Okay, okay. But you've been through a very traumatic experience. It's going to take your mind longer to heal than your body. That's why you feel so... I don't know.... emotional, I guess."

"Don't psychoanalyse me, Mulder. I don't need it and I don't want it."

"I'm trying to help."

"Well don't."

We sit in silence for a long while, each lost in his own thoughts. I think about him. About what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair. What his lips taste like. I remember his smell that first night, my head resting against his bare belly. At length he slips off the bed and leaves the room and I fear I've offended him. But he's back almost instantly carrying the whiskey bottle. He refills my glass and his own and then settles back on the bed. 

"Mulder," I say drowsily, "don't you ever feel the need to shock Scully?"

"To shock her? What, to attach electrodes to her temples and turn on the power?"

I sigh and close my eyes, a mellow smile barely on my lips. "Ha ha. No, you know. She's so damn prissy. Don't you ever have a wicked compulsion to say something outrageous?"

He thinks about it for a while. "No. I don't think I ever do. I feel like shaking her sometimes but that's not quite the same thing, is it?" He closes one eye and squints at me through the other.

"Oh, I think shaking is good. I can go with shaking." I arch my back and hear the satisfying click of the vertebrae. "You know, when we were partners every time I met her I was just itching to say something provocative."

"Such as?"

I smile. "Such as asking her if she ever masturbates."

Mulder chokes back a snort. "Oh my God, Alex. She'd have my balls if I asked her that."

"I think you're a little afraid of Scully."

"I am not."

"She hates me."

"Can you blame her?"

"She hated me from the moment she met me. Before she had any reason to. Apart from the Obvious, of course."

He cocks his head to one side. "The Obvious."

"Yeah, The Obvious. The fact is she would have hated anybody who was with you."

He sighs. "I think you're getting drunk."

"Your fault."

"I suppose."

"Tell me about Phoebe Green." I fish a crumpled photograph off the bedcovers and wave it in front of him.

He takes it. "You really are a scumbag, aren't you? You've been going through my things."

"Sorry, force of habit. Er... what did you call me?"

"A thoroughgoing scoundrel of the first water. A scumbag."

I brighten. "Mulder, you say the nicest things. I must make a note to add that to my resume next time I'm in the job market." I lift my head but I'm still leaning heavily against him. "Perhaps I could put you down as a referee?" 

He looks away in disgust. 

"So tell me then. You met her in Oxford. Why did you break up?"

"I have no intention of sharing any aspect of my love life with you."

I try to look hurt, though he's not even looking at me. "Mulder, you don't honestly think that I am unaware of your personal history? Pleeeeaaase."

"Then why are you asking?"

I shrug. "Just making conversation." I take another drink. I am feeling warm and comfortable.

"You are skating on thin ice, Krycek. You may think you know all about me but last night I saw more of you than anyone should have to, and I guarantee more than you'll ever see of me."

I grin. "That can be rectified."

"Not while I have my strength."

I raise my eyebrows in what I hope is a provocative fashion. "So, back to Ms. Green. Very attractive. Looks a bitch, though. Not unlike Ms. Scully, in fact."

Mulder sighs. "That's enough. I won't have you insult Scully."

I take the photo back off him. "Don't know what she saw in you. Must have been the novelty value of an American accent."

"Yeah. You may be right. Anyway, I don't want to talk about it. It was a long time ago. I don't even want to think about her."

I turn to face him. "Do you think about her?"

He raises his eyebrows. "No. Some things are better left unremembered. Sometimes if your brain is telling you to forget something, then it's best to listen. It's part of the healing process. Forget it and move on."

"Oh, that'll be why you go to all those hypnotic regression sessions, then."

"Okay, okay, so I'm a complex guy. Now shut up before I have to shoot you."

\- 0 -

//I am yanked to my feet and pushed forward to lean over on a workbench. I wince as my chest makes contact with the splintered surface. Clinton comes forward and blindfolds me. Something similar is pulled over my mouth and tied behind my head. I realise with alarm what will happen if I have to be sick, not beyond the realms of possibility given what I've just swallowed. I have little time to worry, however, because something tugs at my belt and then undoes my jeans. Now my eyes are covered all my other senses are heightened and I am painfully aware of how badly I need to use the bathroom. At this point I'd give anything not to have had those last two beers. My shorts are pulled down and a warm hand reaches through my legs and cups my balls from behind. I can't stop a whine of desperation escaping. With shame I resign myself to the fact of my burgeoning erection. Before I can fully grasp the situation, my cheeks are spread apart and a finger is intrusively inserted, roughly stretching me this way and that. My whole body screams against this violation. The awareness of my vulnerability and the palpable sensation of absolute exposure combine in the realisation that these people can do fully anything to me. The finger, suddenly withdrawn, is followed by a cock attempting to gain entry with some force. Instinctively I clench my muscles together. Again he slams into me and I cry out through the gag. There are shouts of encouragement from either side of me as he increases his attempts to batter his way inside me dry. I try to dodge and kick out but the iron bar finds its mark and I am forced to remain where I am or suffer worse. Sounds of a camera shutter. Again I am rammed from behind and the force slams my chest painfully against the unyielding wood. I am wailing now, out of pain and wretchedness. He starts thrusting, slow at first, and shallow, then deeper, harder, and in time with his hellish rhythm I am slammed into the bench. Accompanying his every shove are the repulsive grunts of his pleasure and effort and the raucous encouragement of his companions. He pumps into me harder and with more force as his urgency increases until I am begging the god I know doesn't exist to make him come and come quickly. When I think I can stand it no longer my cock is grabbed and I can't help but come hard, hot semen splashing my bare stomach, followed by the explosion deep inside me as he finds his own release. A hot, shimmering blackness floats before me. Then nothing. //

"Alex, it's only a dream." Mulder is again sitting on the edge of the bed. It is dark. "Are you okay?"

"I need the bathroom."

"Okay." He slips off the bed to let me out and I pad to the bathroom. He's waiting outside when I finish and guides me back to the sofa where I gratefully slip into what is fast becoming my accustomed position behind him. He pulls the duvet over us both and we lay still.

"Mulder, I need to know who did this to me."

He sighs and shifts to a more comfortable position. "Go to sleep, Alex."  
     
\- 0 -

I wake with my head resting on Mulder's upper thigh, his hand stroking my hair. I nestle closer to his warmth. His voice drifts into my consciousness, soft but insistent. "Alex. What are we doing?"

I lift my head slightly so I can see his face. "I'm giving in to my body's self healing instincts and seeking comfort and security."

"Yes, I rather thought you might be. So what am I doing?"

"You're the one with the psych degree, Mulder. Give it some thought and come back to me." I close my eyes and snuggle down again.

Mulder is silent for a few moments. Then he says "Move. I have to go." He wriggles his legs to dislodge me and I groan in protest as he swings his feet to the floor. "Mustn't keep the lovely Scully waiting."

I hiss and he clips me lightly across the ear. 

"Any more of that and I invite her in for breakfast."

I give an exaggerated whimper.

"Listen, we're going to be away for a few days. Will you be okay?"

I open my eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Baltimore."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know. Depends on the case." He stretches and yawns. "Why, will you miss me?"

"Fuck off, Mulder."

\- 0 -

When he's gone the emptiness of the apartment echoes in my head like a heartbeat. Twice in the morning I almost ring him but the thought of Scully at his side gives me pause. At around 12.00 the phone rings. I let it click on to answer-phone until I hear his voice. I pick up the receiver but say nothing.

"Alex, you there?"

"Yeah. And don't use my name. You don't know who's listening."

"You should. They're your friends."

"Ex friends, actually."

"Alex, is there anyone out there who isn't trying to kill you?"

"One or two. Where are you?"

"In a diner somewhere outside Baltimore. I have to be quick. I'm in the men's room."

"Would it be impertinent to ask why you're calling me from the john?"

"Trying to avoid getting caught by Scully. Even she doesn't come in to the men's room." He pauses for effect. "Often." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, how are you doing?"

"I'm okay. Bored. I watched your entire video collection already and I'm not impressed."

"I'm surprised you have the strength to lift the phone."

"Perhaps you and I have different tastes, Mulder."

"Perhaps." There is a silence that lasts a little too long. "Hey, I gotta go. There's only so much time I can spend in here."

"Okay. I'll call you."

"Don't you dare."

I wait till 10 p.m. when I think he'll be alone. "Mulder, it's me."

"Hi. How are you doing?" His voice is soft, like the way I remember he used to talk to Scully.

"I'm okay. Almost shot your cleaning lady, though."

"Oh shit. Forgot to tell you about that."

"It's okay. Mrs Patterson and I are good friends."

In fact Mrs Patterson and I are old friends, though I don't tell him that. Before I ever worked with Mulder they sent me to check out his apartment periodically. There was this one time I was snooping around, opening drawers and reading his mail, checking out his record collection, when I heard a key in the lock and in came this woman in her late forties wearing a canvas raincoat and fake fur hat. You never saw nothin' like it in your life. Well, I looked at her and she looked at me and I looked at her again. Then I told her that I'm Mulder's 'friend' and that I'm staying with him for a while but he's a little sensitive about it so probably better not to mention she's met me. She smiled knowingly, completely unfazed, which made me wonder later, as if this sort of thing was always happening. Perhaps it is. I don't suppose I'm the only one that checks out the Mulder residence on a regular basis. Anyway, we had tea and discussed Mulder's slovenly domestic habits. As far as I can tell she never did tell him. 

Today, she looked pleased to see me and asked if I'm staying long.

"Not long." I said. 

"Good. Last time you left he fell apart." Always direct and to the point Mrs Patterson. No beating about the bush there. She thinks Scully and I ran off together since we both disappeared at the same time. Bless her. 

\- 0 -

It's late afternoon and I'm across the street from Mulder's apartment. He, Skinner and several other men have just entered the building. Mulder looked deeply pissed. They must have recalled him from Baltimore. He's probably praying I'm not there. They'll have identified the murder weapon by now. I expect he's told them the gun must have been stolen and they're going over the place now looking for signs of a break-in. 

Fifteen minutes later and they're all trooping out again. Mulder looks no happier. Skinner looks like a dog just ate his fishing rod. Man, I've never seen that son of a bitch smile. They all get into cars and drive away. 

I wait for half an hour just to be safe and then I go up to the apartment and let myself in. I sit watching the street, waiting for him to return. Jesus, what a difference a few hours make.

I awoke this morning feeling good for the first time in days. The sun was shining through the blinds. Even my jeans were back from the laundry. I was seized with a determination to nail the bastards that did this to me. I lay in bed and reviewed the facts. I had been picked up on the way back to my apartment and bundled into a white van. It seems clear that they must have followed me from the bar. I can't believe I was so careless. That's what happens when you have a drink or two. Still, not too careless to catch part of the license plate. They knew who I was. They called me by name. So, this was not a random abduction but a commission. So far so good. I have made many enemies over the last few years. But few of them would stop at rape. 

I called a guy I used to know in the NYPD. "Hey, Romero. How's it hangin'?"

A pause. A sharp intake of breath. "Alex."

"You remembered. I'm impressed."

"Yeah, well you're hard to forget." His voice was soft, pliant. "What do you want? You do want something?"

"Just calling to see how you are. So how are you?"

"Better for not seeing you."

"You don't mean that. I think about you all the time."

"Stop fucking me around Alex. What do you want?"

I put on my sexiest voice. "And I thought you liked being fucked around... You should have said."

I can almost hear him break into a smile. "Where are you?"

No point in lying. He can tell by the prefix. "Washington."

"Too bad."

"Yeah. Romero, sweetness..."

"Oh God. I knew it. Whatever it is the answer is NO."

"Just a teensy weensy favourette. You won't regret it."

"Alex, I always regret it. You're just never around to see it."

"Now let's not get into that. Listen, some guy hit my car this morning. Scraped all down the side. White van. I got part of the license plate."

"And you want me to trace the owner of the vehicle?"

"Pretty please."

He grunted and let out an exaggerated sigh. "Okay, but you owe me. Again. How many is this now?"

"Next time I'm in New York. Promise."

"Is that a Krycek promise or a real one?"

"I'm insulted."

"Good."

There were only four white vans in Virginia matching the partial license plate and only one in this area. Perfect. It couldn't have been easier. Jesus, these people arn't even professionals. Imagine not bothering to change the plates. Very slapdash. Well, at least one of them won't have the chance to improve his technique because I shot him in the back of the head. Not before he told me who paid him, of course. 

I wiped the gun clean of prints and then I left it there for the Police to find. 

\- 0 -

It's dusk by the time I hear the key in the lock and I'm ready. I jump him as he comes through the door and he pitches forward onto his stomach where I straddle him pinning his arms to the floor with my knees. 

With my good hand I hold the knife to his throat. "You fucking son of a bitch," I hiss, "you fucking sicko."

He's struggling, bucking with his hips trying to dislodge me. "Better than being a fucking murderer, Krycek. I'm told another of your victims is lying in the city morgue."

"You're in no position to criticise Mulder." I let him feel the prick of the blade against his skin.

He becomes still under me, his left cheek pressing against the floor. 

"That's better. Tell me why you did it. Then I'm going to take great pleasure in watching you bleed to death."

He laughs, an ironic, bitter sound that almost has me driving the blade home. "Why did I do it? Do you have to ask?" His face is contorted into an unpleasant sneer. "For Scully. For my father. For Tunguska. Did you leave your brain in Russia as well as your arm?"

I crack him across the cheek with the handle of the knife. 

He winces and draws a sharp breath. "You killed my fucking father, you son of a bitch. Killing's so easy for you isn't it? You have no humanity. Have you any idea what my father meant to me?"

Unexpectedly, I feel needles pricking behind my eyes.

"You wouldn't care in any case." He closes his eyes and immediately reopens them. "I don't even know why I'm saying this to you. I hope you live a long and unhappy life full of pain and remorse."

The fury breaks to the surface and I lunge forward, plunging the knife into the floor an inch from his nose. He flinches and takes his chance to throw me off whilst I'm recovering balance. He twists round and before I can defend myself his fist smashes into my jaw, knocking me onto the floor on my butt. I launch myself at him yelling my rage and we scuffle, each reaching for the knife which is sticking upright out of the wooden floor like tent peg. My fingers are inches from it when he grabs my little finger and yanks. The snap of bone is audible and I draw back, squealing in pain. He is ignoring the prosthesis which hangs at my side so I take the chance to hit him in the face with it. 

He pauses in shock and we each stare at the other for a full two seconds, the blood beginning to trickle from his nose. He cuffs it, looks at it, then makes a lunge towards me. "You bastard. May you rot in Hell."

Something inside me snaps and I bolt for the bathroom and lock the door.

In a second he's pounding on it. "Open this door, you fucking bastard. If you make me break this lock I'm gonna fucking kill you." His voice is hoarse with anger.

I stand breathing heavily, my back to the door, feeling it vibrate each time his fist hits it. There is pain searing through my finger and it's already beginning to swell. I go the wall cabinet and open it. Amongst the half used bottles of ear-drops and cotton buds are several bottles of prescription drugs, the sort you are supposed to either finish or take back to the drug store for destruction. I take the nearest and struggle vainly with the childproof cap, trying to spare my injured finger. I can't believe I can't open it. I throw it across the room in temper. As it hits the wall the lid comes off and little yellow pills scatter all over the floor. I try another and this time manage the combination of squeezing and twisting required to remove the cap. Small shiny red pills. I tip the bottle up and gulp them down without hesitation. I drop the empty bottle on the floor. The next bottle says Septrin. Six months beyond its consume by date. I open it and swallow the half a dozen pills that it contains. 

"Krycek. Open this door. I'm warning you." He continues to bang his fist on the outside.

Another bottle contains nondescript white capsules with some unpronounceable name beginning with P. Those are so big I have to take them one at a time. I run the cold tap and slosh some water into my mouth to wash them down. 

He's stopped banging on the door. His voice is calmer, more measured but still angry. "Krycek. If you don't open this door so I can brain you, I'm going to call Skinner and tell him you're here. Don't make the mistake of believing this is an idle threat."

Little brown and black capsules. What are all these pills? Scully would have a fit if she knew. Aspirin. A full bottle of aspirin. They are chalky and leave a horrible taste in my mouth. I force myself to chew them, watching myself in the bathroom mirror as I do so. I can only manage three quarters of the bottle before I'm feeling nauseous and foaming at the mouth. I put the cap back on, place the bottle back on the shelf and close the cabinet door.

I unlock the door, step back and sit down cross-legged on the floor amid the yellow pills that lay all around like miniature marbles. I pick one or two up on impulse and swallow them. 

A second later the door opens and Mulder strides in, dried blood on his upper lip, his face set in an expression of extreme displeasure. He takes in the scene at a glance and grabs me by the collar of my jacket, hauling me to my feet. "Oh perfect. Just perfect. This day just keeps getting better and better. Are you stupid or what?" 

He's shaking me and I can feel my teeth rattling. The panic is welling inside me and I have an awful feeling I'm going to grizzle.

"So what am I supposed to do now, Krycek? Call the paramedics? Drive you down to the ER to get your stomach pumped?" He shoves me away and I hit the wall, cracking the back of my head against it. He raises his fist and I flinch, bracing myself for the blow that never comes. I slide down the wall, my hand over my face, trying to hide the pain that has to be evident there.

"Or perhaps it would be better if I just left you, allowed liver failure to do the job I should have done a long time ago." His voice is full of contempt. "You are such an asshole." He turns on his heel and walks out of the room. 

I close my eyes tight shut. 

He walks back in and I snap my eyes back open. 

He's pacing the small room, running his hands through his hair. "What were you thinking of, Alex? For Christ's sake. As if we don't have enough trouble."

I choke back the tears enough to speak. "You paid them to do that to me."

He looks calmly down into my eyes. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?"

I cover my face with my hands. I weep without tears, silently screaming the misery I feel and the hurt that overwhelms me. My whole body shudders with the effort. My fist goes to my mouth and I sink my teeth into my index finger and keep biting, hoping the additional physical pain will take away the agony of what's going on my head.

"Enough, Alex. Shut up. You're upsetting me. What have you taken?" He squats down picking up the empty bottles, looking at the labels and putting them down again. "It doesn't matter. They won't have had time to dissolve in your stomach anyway. They're coming back up if I have to ram my fingers down your fucking throat."

He walks out of the room and comes back a minute later with a glass full of something cloudy. "Salt water." He explains. "Get up."

When I don't move he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. 

A wave of nausea washes over me. 

"Now stand there and drink it. And you throw up on my floor again and I will kill you."

I sniff it and turn away, my stomach already beginning to heave.

"I said drink it."

I take a sip and immediately the contents of my stomach are on their way down the toilet bowl. He stands behind me, watching.

"You okay?"

I shrug. What can I say? I feel like shit and I wish I were dead.

"Go sit on the couch. I'll be with you in a moment."

I hesitate.

"Go on." The anger's gone from his voice now. He just sounds tired. 

I do as he says. The lounge is still dark and I sit there hugging myself, listening to him moving around, flushing the toilet. 

He comes into the room, grabs the phone and dials. 

I sit mute, anxiously waiting to hear who he's calling.

Scully. He talks for a few minutes running her through the interview with Skinner, and the search of the apartment. I can hear her asking if he's okay. He glances over at me and says he is. At last when he's satisfied her that everything's okay, he hangs up. 

I sit staring at the floor, though it's so dark I can't see it. I can't stop shaking. He sits down next to me and pulls me to him. I move willingly into his embrace like a chastened child. 

He strokes his hand across my hair as I rest my head on his chest. "I'm sorry, Alex." he says. I feel his breath brushing my hair. His heart is beating rapidly and he is trembling slightly. "I swear I never meant them to do that to you. I just wanted them to scare you." He take a deep breath and releases it slowly. "I didn't know... I didn't know about your arm. My source said you were back but that was all." He takes another deep shuddering breath. "If I'd known..."

I lift my head. "I'm not a fucking cripple, you know. You don't have to make any special allowances."

"I know." He pulls me closer and I can't stop the tears spilling down my cheeks. I lay my hand on his chest kneading the fabric of his shirt. Outside a far off siren breaks the evening quiet.

"I'd give anything to have my arm back again. Anything."

He hugs me closer still. "Jesus, Alex. What a fucking mess. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry."

We sit there, touching in the darkened room. 

My head moves with the rise and fall of his chest. "I didn't betray you, you know. In Tunguska, I mean."

He brushes his fingers lightly across my hair.

I am plucking at his shirt. "I was getting us out. I had it under control. I was trying to help you." My own voice is cracking with emotion. "Why do you think I sent you those receipts in the first place?"

"Then why didn't you say something?"

"Would you have believed me?"

He doesn't reply and for a while we sit there in silence, each feeling the other's warmth. Finally, reluctantly, I have to shift position to relieve the pressure on my arm. 

He runs his hand over my shoulder in the darkness, feeling the hardness of the prosthesis through my jacket. "Would you be more comfortable if you took this off?" He begins to pull at my jacket.

"Leave it, Mulder. Please."

But he undoes my shirt buttons and I find myself moving so he can slip my arm out of the sleeve. He reaches over and turns on the desk lamp. The offence that has replaced my left arm is illuminated. Its plastic shines an unsightly and unnatural pink in the harsh light. Mulder's eyes rest on it.

"No, it's okay Mulder. I'm okay now." I say, turning away from.

"Let me." He begins to undo the leather straps that keep this monstrosity attached to me and I have to fight not to squirm with embarrassment. 

"Alex, relax." The buckles are undone and I feel the release and lightness as the prosthesis is removed. He lays it out of sight. His fingers move over the dressing that covers the scar tissue and he gently pulls at the sticking plaster that holds it to my shoulder. 

"Please don't, Mulder." I hear the plea in my voice and cringe. "It's ugly."

He pauses. "Alex, I can't imagine anything of yours is ugly." 

He begins unwinding the bandage that covers the withered stump and I look away. It smells of sweat and old cheese and it turns my stomach. 

"When did you last change this dressing?"

I don't answer.

"Alex, you have to take more care of this. Really." 

I feel the rush of cool air on the exposed flesh and shudder.

He runs his fingers over my upper arm and I wince as he touches the pressure sores. 

"Do you always have these?"

"When I haven't worn it for a few days. The skin's got soft."

He nods slowly. "Show me your finger."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." He takes my hand and looks at the heavily swollen finger. He swallows. "Oh God, Alex. I'm sorry."

"It' okay. I deserved it."

"C'mon. I'll tape it up. I'll wash it and redress this for you too." He rubs his finger over my upper arm.

Reluctantly, I follow him into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the bath whilst he fills the sink. The light in the bathroom is unforgiving and I take care not to look at the exposed stump of my arm. I jump when I feel Mulder's hands on my shoulder and upper arm.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, it's okay. Just cold."

"Sorry." His soapy fingers move in lazy circles over me, smooth and slow. The smell of peaches fills the room. 

I close my eyes and try to think of sandy beaches and blue skies, to remove myself from the here and now. When his fingers slide gently over the scar tissue I get that familiar queasy feeling. Black specs start to dance in front of my eyes. I feel hot and sick. "Mulder..."

"You okay?" He pauses and lifts my head with one soapy hand. 

I can hear his voice as if it's far away in another room and I'm falling, falling into the darkness and yet never reach the bottom, like Alice down the rabbit hole. 

"Lean forward and let the blood rush to your head. You'll be okay."

I find myself leaning against him and I can feel his hands on me, supporting me. I take deep grateful breaths and feel the cool waves wash over me as I float up toward the light. With each one I feel better, cooler, less sick.

"Would you like some water?" I feel the rumble in his chest as he says it, my cheek pressed as it is to his ribcage.

"No." I suddenly feel exhausted and lift my head. "Are we finished?"

"Almost." He takes a face cloth, rinses it, wrings it out and then deftly wipes the soap from me. I stare away at the bathtaps as if my life depends upon it determined to stay conscious this time. I can see Mulder's distorted reflection and my own in the gleaming chrome.

"Does it always make you feel like this?"

"Mostly." I say thickly.

"You need to look after this, Alex. You need to change the dressing. And you shouldn't get it wet."

I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder in silence whilst he dries and redresses the scar tissue. 

Then he takes my hand and tapes my fingers. "You tired?"

"Yeah."

"C'mon then." 

He turns off the bathroom light. The rest of the apartment is in darkness and I feel my way to his room. I climb wearily onto his bed and he climbs up next to me, crooking his arm around me as we settle down. I mould myself to his shape. I fight the drowsiness that makes my eyes so heavy, listening to his regular breathing. For the longest time I stare into the darkness, relishing the sensation of his body against mine, reluctant to move even slightly lest I disturb him and he move away.

"Why did you take the pills?"

The question takes me by surprise. I thought he was sleeping. "I don't know." I think I wanted to hurt him as if hurting myself would hurt him. It's that old "you'll miss me when I'm dead" attention seeking thing, I suppose. As if. The day he hears I'm dead Mulder will probably throw a party.

"But you didn't mean it."

"I suppose not."

"Good."

\- 0 -

I become gradually aware that Mulder is rubbing himself slowly but insistently against me, one arm flung over my chest, his face nestling in my hair. I can feel his breath warm and moist against my neck. He's making little whimpering sounds that are sending shivers of desire direct to my growing cock until I think I must come from the sheer eroticism of it. I can feel his erection through my jeans, pressing urgently against my butt and with every little movement he gets closer. Closer to the edge. Don't come like that, honey. Wait for me.

I turn and pull him closer, planting a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. I can barely see him in the darkness and sensation is everything. He sighs, his mouth finding mine, his crotch against mine and I actually feel tears pricking my eyes. He has no idea how long I've waited for this. And all I want now is to give him pleasure. I reach down and release the button of his jeans and slide the zip down. This brings a gasp from him. Inside his cock responds to my touch. God. He's on fire. My own cock flexes in affinity with his and a shock wave of desire travels through me like quicksilver. I stroke my thumb gently across his slippery glans and he quivers gratifyingly, his breath suspended. I can't believe what his excitement is doing to me. 

I plant my mouth on his swollen lips. "Tell me what to do, Mulder. Tell me what you like."

The split second I utter the words I inwardly curse my stupidity. The spell is broken. He kicks out like an ill-tempered mule, missing my genitals by inches and catching my inner thigh. A fist lashes out and strikes my cheek. Then he's off the bed and on the floor, taking the duvet with him, scrambling to his feet, zipping his jeans hurriedly.

"What are you doing?" There's shock and real horror in his voice.

I sit up, holding my cheek, equally shocked. 

Neither of us speak for a couple of seconds.

"Mulder, you started it."

"Get out." He spits out the words like stale bread.

He thinks I ravished him. He actually thinks I instigated this! "Mulder-"

"Why don't you just fuck off." He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, leaving me confused and hurt. I hear him slam the bathroom door, the room we've both come to see as a refuge, the only door in the apartment with a lock. I hear the noise of a shower running. 

Surely, I didn't misread those signals? I haul myself off the bed, put the light on and head for the lounge. The prosthetic limb lies on the floor by the couch where he placed it. I take it, sit down and slowly begin strapping it on, no easy task one handed with two taped fingers. All the time I am listening to the water running, waiting for it to stop, for him to come out and ask me to stay.

I pick up my shirt from where he dropped it and slip into it. One at a time I fasten the buttons. 

I go back into his room and open the wardrobe to check out the jackets. If I'm leaving, I'm not going empty handed. The shower's stopped. I let the wardrobe door slam, giving him the chance to come and argue about it. I pull on an expensive thermal coat that reaches to my knees and check my reflection in the mirror. Silence from the bathroom. 

I can delay no longer. I pull on my boots, pull the jacket closer around me, and slip out into the night. He won't follow me. I know that. Regret at the loss of him combines with a warm glow around my heart at the memory of his arms around me. I'll leave him be. He's not ready. But give him some time and who knows what he'll convince himself of...?


End file.
